


as long as the sunflower sought the sun

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Retirement!lock, Sussex!Lock, old guys taking the piss out of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: a typical morning passed by our favourite gay couple as older guys in their teeny cottage in sussex - enjoy <3





	

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from oscar wilde's poem 'her voice'.

They’re still wondering how the hell they got here, the pair of them. The soldier and the genius. Lying on the crisp linen, enveloped in the ivory duvet and each others’ embraces. Sherlock’s chin rests nicely on John’s downy silver scalp, both of his arms surrounding his ribs and his palms pressed on his pectorals. They aren’t rock-hard, like a gym-bunny’s. They’re just John. Sherlock’s slender legs, lengthy by comparison to his counterpart’s, bunch up around John’s figure, their waists adjacent to one another’s. 

John feels love and warmth ensconce him from behind. Although fully clothed, in recent years, they’ve both felt closer to each other and more naked and exposed and true than they’ve ever felt. They’re in bed, but both just waking from their slumber, breathing in the taste of the new day. One of John’s pyjama-covered legs twines around one of Sherlock’s as an acknowledgement of both their presences and their fondness. The hum of the umber sun throbbing on their closed eyelids gives them a hint of the Sussex springtime weather. It’s probably fairly early, but the air is already lukewarm and the cottage has gratefully appreciated the heat. 

Feeling the touch of fabric around his bare ankle, Sherlock reciprocates with thumbs stroking John’s abdomen. 

“Morning.”

John adores the tone of Sherlock’s voice first thing in the morning. That said, he loves it all the time, every day of the week, but at this hour, it’s raspier, lower, more soothing and rich. At the sound, he turns, dislodging their position to creaking joints and to face his lover.

“Hey.” Faces crease and bloom. John brings a hand up to caress the deep curve of Sherlock’s pale neck, gently, then reaches further to the smooth crevices of his ear. Eventually he twirls a finger through Sherlock’s glossy, inextricably curly bed-hair. It’s even whitening at his temples, making it even more irresistibly sexy. The moments like these are blissful. John writhes out of sleep and open his eyes fully.

They’ve developed a routine since retiring and moving into the cottage. They alternate who goes to make tea first thing in the morning, then they lie there, wrapped in each other’s comfort, until they decide that things have to be done, since they’re still young and capable. Their hobby is taking the piss out of each other - who’s going grey first, who’s arthritis will eventually set in. But in this very moment, life’s good.

Today, it’s Sherlock’s turn for tea. Both knowing this, they unfurl; Sherlock floats up and swings his legs off their bed, while John rests his head on his hand and stares at the low, ivory bedroom ceiling. The cost of their cottage reflects its quality, but by god, they love it. 

The mahogany beams and the slight dampness of the walls ooze their personalities, and although extremely minute - smaller than their living space in 221b - it’s crammed with more stuff that makes it their own than ever. Sherlock still loves having the bits of lab equipment lying around, as John likes the bull’s head and the clock on the mantel and the sentimental bits, as personal reminders of their London days. Of course, it can’t keep the Baker Street Boys away for long, so they often visit to see Molly and Greg, Mycroft, even just to wander and admire it, to feel every quiver of its beating heart.

Whilst John is away in his mind and memories, Sherlock has the duty of morning tea. The kitchen is so small that you can sit at the dining table, get something out of the fridge and open the oven door all at the same time - well, if you were endowed with long limbs, that is. He reaches for the two designated mugs and places a teabag in each. He’s flicked the kettle on subconsciously prior, so the water is ready in the time he’s had chance to think. Water, then stir and wait. Take the teabag out, splash of milk. He pads back into their bedroom and opens the door to be greeted by a flurry of warm, moist air that smells of fresh sheets and sleep and John.

Daydreaming has got the better of John and he’s now almost dozing off when the resonant sound of Sherlock’s footsteps approaches the doorway. He sits up and squints the final bits of comatose out from his eyelids. He gratefully accepts the tea off of Sherlock and sits up against the bedhead. Sherlock shakes his pillow and pats it a few times, then joins John again under the sheets, also with a steaming mug in his other hand.

They sip in silence for some moments while they regain consciousness and come into focus. However, it’s not awkwardness by any means. They are sitting so tightly next to each other in the centre of the double bed that there is enough room either side of the couple to fit two more people. John has found comfort using Sherlock’s chest as a pillow, his head rising and falling by minuscule measures with each of his lover’s breaths. Sherlock’s arm encases John’s torso around his back, and he is close enough to his head to smell his hair, the scent of which is powdery and musty and reminds him of home.

After a time, Sherlock speaks up, voice dry from the silence. “So,” he rumbles, “Plans for today?”

John doesn’t speak immediately, but shuffles around where he has been lying, as a gesture to Sherlock that he’s listening and awake. He thinks it’s rare that he’s the one that is being comforted in this way.

“Um…” He just wants to lie here, all day. “Dunno, really.”

Begrudgingly, he sits properly up and takes another mouthful of tea. “This is nice.”

“What, the tea?”

“No, I just meant lying in bed with you is quite nice. The tea’s shit, you’ve made it wrong.” A smile is pulling at the corners of his lips.

It’s a crescendo of a vocalisation when Sherlock retorts: “ _Hey!_ ” He elbows John in the bicep. “Cheeky sod. I think it’s nice.”

John feels a vibrating warmth resonating through his bones. “Well you would,” he interjects. For the sake of hilarity, he sniffs it and winces. “Cor, what have you done to it?”

At this point, they’re giggling, just like the first time they laughed together in the hallway after that manic chase.

Sherlock flippantly waves a hand above him with an air of femininity and innocence. “I have never done anything wrong, ever, in my life, John.”

“Mmm … ” There are a few moments that come to mind.

“You’re supposed to say ‘I know this, and I love you.’”

“I do love you.”

“Well, I love you, too.” 

“ _Well_ , you’re really bad at it.” Except he isn’t, not really.

“How so?”

John finds Sherlock laughably ignorant. “You _killed_ me for those two years, Sherlock!”  
John’s signature line - bringing up the Fall. “ _I_ killed me too! And I came back! I don’t see why you’re still making such a big deal out of it!”

John’s decided he’s too tired for this, and with a cheeky smile, his last line is, “Piss off. We’re too old to be having squabbles.”

Ah, mornings like these. Retirement suits them. They can often pass many minutes, even hours, like this. Chatting and taking the piss and giggling.  
They end the erratic commentary by sighing, and John kissing Sherlock’s temple, followed by tracing his neck with his fingertips. “I love you really”. And Sherlock feels it was worth being born just to hear him say that.

**Author's Note:**

> "I hear the wind blow, and I feel it was worth being born just to hear the wind blow." - Fernando Pessoa


End file.
